


Sleepless Sunday Rain

by pirripipi



Series: Running without shoelaces [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: A lot of kissing, Fluff, M/M, Not porn, like srly it barely gets explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirripipi/pseuds/pirripipi
Summary: He awaits at the door frame. Stays very still while Hamilton, not closer than arm length, puts both hands over his shoulder and looks at him, a smile still in his face and pride in his eyes.He can’t avoid marveling about how time can change things.





	Sleepless Sunday Rain

Jefferson kisses like he needed it to survive. Like the world had fallen apart and the sun will not rise. 

 

It wasn’t about the kiss itself. Nor the situation. Nor even the intention. It was just Jefferson. Something intrinsic of himself. Kissing and surviving, surviving and kissing. It always shakes Hamilton to the core.

 

It gets quite intense very soon.

 

There’s a moan and a jacket that falls down the livingroom floor. A tug in someone’s hair. A shift of position and they lay tangled on the sofa, eating each other and burning their lungs. Jefferson lets Hamilton lay on top of him, pressed as close as he can, his weight doesn’t bother him that much anyway.

 

They stop for a second, look at each other and Hamilton is scratching Jefferson’s nape with a fondness that wasn’t there before, that was never expected. It made Jefferson a little bit breathless.

They kiss again.

 

Things keep scaling and so they shift, untangle and hurry to take their shirts away, to unbulk their belts and Hamilton throws himself towards Jefferson’s neck like he is a thirsty man. He is just the slightest surprised that he effectively managed to pin him down. Jefferson doesn’t complain.

 

The leftovers of their take away are cold, forgotten on the table. The tv is been on commercials since before they started making out. There is something soothing on the white noise it makes.

 

Hamilton keeps kissing Jefferson neck; goes up to his jaw and down to his chest. He rejoices on every spasm that crosses Jefferson spine, every whimper, every moan and sigh. Then he withdraws and observes and marvels. He is never ready for the sight that Jefferson makes when he is torn apart, with his flushed cheeks and messy hair, with his hands wrapped around his waist like he is afraid to drown. He is never ready and maybe he’ll never be, so he goes back to kiss Jefferson’s swollen lips, slower this time, just so he can savour him.

 

He rests himself over Jefferson fully, lets him wrap him on his arms and push him slightly up; lets him deep the kiss.

 

There’s sweet choral music coming from the tv, mild as a rose colored winter day. They keep kissing and the music continues and stills, barely appreciating the new formed silence.

 

_ “It is an extremely common mistake: people think the writer’s imagination is always at work, that he is constantly inventing an endless supply of incidents and episodes…” _

 

Says an old man. They do not care at first, but as the man keeps talking they slow down, steal a glance to the tv and go back to kissing. 

 

_ “they bring the characters and events to you…” _

 

Jefferson catches Hamilton’s bottom lip softly between his teeth, stretches it ever so little and kisses him quickly. Slides him up more, moves to his neck and keeps kissing there, enjoying each one of Hamilton’s shudders on his arms. 

 

_ “carefully listen, these stories will continue to seek you out- Don’t do it. Don’t!” _

 

They both jolt at that; flustered and breathless, they stare at each other before looking at the tv. They find themselves captivated.

They don’t look away as they kiss again, absently, slower each time as the old man keeps talking and they grow curious.

They glimpsed at each other every now and then, quick, flimsy little peeks that they barely notice. The voice in the background becomes younger as they just stop.

 

_ “although I do not believe any acquaintance among our number had proceeded beyond the polite nods we exchanged as...” _

 

Still awkwardly graped. Still just an inch away of each other, they keep staring at the tv entranced; it’s dun light kindly framing their features. It was like the time stilled. A warm atmosphere that felt like the opposite of being alone in a crowd.

 

They snap back to reality.

 

A palpable uneasy feeling is born as they once again look at each other, the kind that rises when you are doing something you weren’t meant to do. The one that wanders the edges of unknown territory. There seems to not be enough air in the room until Jefferson suggests:

 

_ "We can always fuck later." _

 

"Agree."

 

And with that they go into motion like two men on a mission. Hamilton throws himself over the edge of the sofa to get a blanket, Jefferson goes pick up the cushions they kicked out. More shifting, not talking, and they are snuggled side by side.

 

_ “He was, like the rest of us, alone -- but also, I must say, he was the first that struck one as being, deeply and truly, lonely.” _

 

Is endearing seeing them like this. Jefferson said once that silence held power, what he fail to see was that it also held companionship.

 

Time runs and goes while both of them try not to think about how improbable something like this would have been some weeks ago. Try not to see how they unwind into each other, a feet against a thigh, an arm that falls too close, a head that rest over a shoulder

 

Is a slow, gently slow, path. And it held a shyness you would not expect from two people that has been screwing each other for so long. Still there it was, there they were. And if their hands were resting one over the other and their breathing was in sync, who was there to see?

 

&&

 

Jefferson has been working hard. He has always been a hard worker, mind you, but these three weeks he has been closer to a machine than an actual human being. It better be worth it.

Day and night, night and day, and all his free time basically gone into eating and showering. He can’t remember working like this since last April. And even then he is sure he was able to get a bit more hours of sleep per day. It has to be worth it.

It happens every couple of years, a project so big that the whole department would bring itself down to it. And he is the head of the department.

This meeting needs to go well. He can close a deal right here, right now and finally, finally, end his suffering. He is at the edge of an anxiety episode and the coffé he took two hours ago isn’t helping. 

 

This has to go well. It has to. They need to. 

 

He takes a deep breath, grounds himself in the desert office bathroom. He can do this. He fixes his tie on the mirror, checks his hair and goes through everything that is needed to be said for the seventh time. It needs to be good. They need to close the deal and they need to close it today.

 

7 a.m, no more than half an hour away from zero hour.

He is glad the meeting will take place on their building, and not just because is closer to his home, better be on known territory.

 

When this is over he is going to sleep for two days straight. 

 

They are going to close this deal, and are going to close it today.

 

&&

 

Two hours and a half later and he is swinging his hip all the way down the fifth floor corridors. He is so rapted with himself he could break into a victory dance if it didn’t seemed like a bit too much. But damn, if it would feel good.

Not as good as this night is going to feel, mind you.

 

With his hands behind his back he turned left, then right, right again and kept walking all the way down the sunniest wing of the building. He’ll need more caffeine to survive the night, but baby if it’s going to be worth it. He spots Hamilton’s office just a couple of doors away, invitingly open.

When he is there he lets himself fall graciously against the frame; If Hamilton hears him he doesn’t show it. 

 

Jefferson takes a second to observe him work with fondness before interrupting:

 

"Darling, you should come and throw me flowers, because I fucking deserve it." He makes Hamilton laugh. Watches him let the pen down as he rest his face on his palm, a fond smile on his face. Jefferson doesn’t move.

"Right. Today was the last meeting, wasn't it?” He says “Did you got a deal."

 

"Packed with a ribbon and ready under the christmas tree."

 

Hamilton gives a short chortle at that and Jefferson beams into it. He has found out that making Alexander laugh is way better than making him frown. Hamilton pushes himself out of the chair and walks towards him.

He awaits at the door frame. Stays very still while Hamilton, not closer than arm length, puts both hands over his shoulder and looks at him, a smile still in his face and pride in his eyes. 

 

He can’t avoid marveling about how time can change things.

 

"Well, look at you, you can actually do some hard work when needed." And is Jefferson’s time to laugh then. Short and sincere.

 

"Excuse me if I usually prefer to celebrate life than drown myself on office work."

 

"’Celebrate life’ you say. Speaking of that," He says leaning closer, a finger tracing up and down over his chest "Don't you think you should celebrate having done such pretty neato job." There’s a second in which Thomas’ breath gets stuck on his throat and then he is being dragged ever so slowly by his tie to Hamilton’s height.

 

"Well I may have a couple of things in mind." He says putting his hands on Alexander waist, not dragging him closer, not daring to, thumbs drawing circles ever so slightly.

 

"Oh, me too." He purrs. "My place? I may even make you dinner." And Jefferson knows is a promise.

 

"Well, look at that, feeling romantic?" He jokes. Just for a second they remember the blurry, uncertain lines that frame whatever is going on between them. 

 

"Looking for an excuse to give you some wine. You have the cutest tipsy laugh I’ve ever heard." And at this point he should be used the kind of compliments Hamilton gives. But he isn’t and feels his cheeks warm.

 

"I'm not complaining then."

 

&&

 

He doesn’t usually cook. He has not enough time for it, nor he cares enough about what he is eating. Nevertheless he has a small repertoire of dishes he knows he nails every time. He toys with the idea of making something fancy, just to show off a little bit, maybe even something from his home town, but it seems like too much. Everything that has to do with his roots tends to be too much.

Thus he goes with baked chicken thighs instead, easy and tasty and honestly anything made in the oven makes you look like you actually knows your shit. Which he doesn’t but lets not let Thomas realize that just yet.

 

He thinks about having dinner at the kitchen for a change. It seemed too intimate tho, without the ramble of the tv chasing away the silence.

So he goes set the livingroom coffee table as the thighs get cooked, picks up the flowered cloth and the nice flutes to match the fancy wine he is sure Thomas is going to bring. He breaths. Gives himself a second to consider what is he doing as he goes to set the lights low. He wonders if it is too much. His doorbell rings and he decides that is not.

 

Thomas is at the door, ten minutes early and ridiculously well dressed, of course.

 

“Thought I gave you a key” Alexander greets.

 

“Yeah, but you invite me this time, darling, and I intend to be the perfect guest” He holds up the wine with a captivating smile.

 

“As much as I’ll love to believe you...” Alexander says and gestures. “Go sit then, dinner is not ready yet.”

 

Thomas seems almost apologetic as he says:

 

“Too early?”

 

“It’s fine, I have the misfortune of knowing you enough. Go sit and we can drink your wine until the chicken is done.”

 

“Why do I have the feeling that that suggestion is not as spontaneous as you want to make it sounds?” Alexander laughs as he is followed into the livingroom. “You even brought out the matching cutlery, are you trying to seduce me, Alexander?” Thomas says, opening the wine and filling the flutes.

 

“Hush now.” He says as he picks his glass and joins Thomas on the sofa.

 

Conversation flowed easily. Thomas wasn’t really someone that liked to bring work home, but he made an exception that day. And Alexander was eager to know.

 

“And that’s it, deal closed, and I’m finally, finally free.” Hamilton rolls his eyes and smiles. “And I’ll tell you what, when we-” and he gestured suggestively between the two of them. “ -are done, I’m going to sleep like there is no tomorrow.”

 

“Good to know your priorities.” Alexander jokes, and before Thomas has the chance to say anything the oven dings and Alexander is gone. “Put whatever you like on tv, there’s probably nothing good anyway.” He shouts from the kitchen.

  
  


And so he does. And truth be told there’s little to watch. News are a strong no, he has had enough work talk to even want to watch it appear on the tv too. He sticks with figure skating in the end, because he likes it and knows Hamilton likes it too. Is soothing as well, easy to get lost in, as Alexander likes to say.

 

“Dinner is served.” Alexander announces with a flourish. “Are these the short programs?.”

 

“Uhm.” Thomas answers as he serves himself. “You know, it still baffles me that you are actually a good cooker.”

 

“Why, thanks you, you know how this is, you have to play your cards close to your chest.”

 

“Sure. Pass me the wine, will you?”

  
  


They didn’t talk too much, they never seems to when they are in private. The music from the tv filled the room better than they could have done and a warm sense of satisfaction had settled over them.

 

“Shit, he fell harder than the first time I put skates on.” Thomas says, his meal almost finished, his flute just refilled and his cheeks adorably rosy.

 

“You skate?” Alexander asks, stopping his fork halfway to his mouth.

 

“Is a nice way to call it.”

 

And it is at the tip of Alexander’s tongue,  _ ‘we should go skate someday’ _ , almost slipping out of his lips. But this is still too much new, too uncertain, and that sounded to close to a date. An official date.

 

He finds out he doesn’t dislike the idea. 

 

Conversation moves and dessert it’s on its way. And maybe Thomas laughs at how childlike is having ice cream at this hour but he sure doesn’t refuse his.

 

“I’m just saying a play is not really a play if you can’t watch it on live, that’s where the soul of the theater is!” His spoon to close to spill over Hamilton’s sofa.

 

“We’ve gone over this already, not everyone lives on fucking New York to afford go to a show that there’s only here.” 

 

“Is amazing how wrong you can be.”

 

&&

 

There was a loud bump coming from the living room, a hiss and a voice and in seconds the door of Alexander’s room was being open uncaringly. They stormed inside, clinged to each other like they wanted to be just one being. 

Someone turns on the lights, another one cares enough to close the curtains.

A shirt goes down and a shoe gets lost under the bed, a belt flies. They grunt and whimper and moan shamelessly. They almost fall over the bed. 

 

It takes less than an instant for Alexander to climb over Thomas, barely sitting over his low stomach before kissing him again, and again. They are insistent and hurried and sweet and just a tad tipsy. Thomas moans every time he can get a little bit of air.

 

Alexander rolls to his side and Thomas has a second to sit up, trying to catch his breath. He is ready to put down the ridiculous amount of pillows that Alexander owns when he is stopped.

 

"Let them where they are.” He purrs, pushing Thomas down gently against them. “Make yourself comfortable." 

He can’t look away from his burning eyes, can’t nor want to find the strength to resist him.

 

"What's in your head, Alexander." He questions.

 

"You know, I'm actually a little bit impressed." He says cradling by his side, kissing his jaw. "Maybe we can make a working man out of you and everything." Thomas snorks, tangles his arms around Alexander’s waist. Hamilton moves to his neck, kisses and licks and kisses again, and one of Jefferson’s hands flies to his hair. He rolls again, pushes himself over Thomas and keeps kissing. The comforting weight of Alexander stretched over him feels like a warm blanket on a cold day. "I want you to take it easy today." He says as he goes down, down his chest.

 

Thomas groans, arching as much as Alexander weight allows him, begins a moans that ends as a yawn and keeps caresing Alexander’s hair with devotion.

 

"You don't have to tell me twice." He says with a strangled voice.

 

He tries not to choke on his breath, takes a second to look away from Alexander and think about how things weren’t like this when this started. Hot and rushed and straight to the point, that’s how they used to be. Everything was in flames back then. He can’t say he misses it. Not when this is the alternative.

 

Alexander reaches his pelvis and grabs his thighs just a bit harder than he needs to. Just how he knows Thomas likes it. He whimpers, rolls his hips, and there is a moment when Hamilton tries to tease, as he always tries, before he loses his patience and starts licking his cock, tongue flat against his head, hands petting his inner thighs just so slightly. He melts against the pillows. Closes his eyes. Keeps moaning, feeling the tension leave his body, his muscles relaxing, his mind struggling to keep full attention on what Hamilton is doing to him.  He sure knows how to bring Jefferson to heaven.

 

Being as focused on his task as he was, it took Alexander some moments to realize what had happened. To notice that the moans stopped and the legs he was graving weren't trembling anymore. He looked up at Jefferson, but his face was facing up to the ceiling. He lets the cock go and raises up.

 

"Hey, is everything ok- no way." He sits over his heels in disbelief. Waves a hand in front of Thomas’ face and stares. Waits. He does what he cans to not laugh. "My, you actually worked your ass off, didn't you." He says fondly. Lets his hand fell against Jefferson’s chest, to feel it rise and fall deeply and stable.

He shakes his head; pushes himself off him and falls to his side, careful not to.disturb his sleep. 

 

He can’t avoid staring, spellbound. Thomas is beautiful like this.

 

He stayed like that for a while, letting himself relax, pretending to be considering waking him up. Like he would ever. 

 

It was peacefully still.

 

He was glad they pulled down the covers. He shakes his head again, amazed, before pulling out of bed. As silently as he could, he went to put his pajama on and grab a pair of clean underwear that could fit Jefferson.

 

He was glad he was asleep, so he didn't see the struggle he went through to pull up his hips without waking him up. 

 

He was a heavy sleeper apparently. It occurred to him that this would be the first night that Jefferson would sleep at his place. 

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

With a lot of work he gently slided  him down the nest of pillows to make him lie flat on the bed. Graved a pillow himself and covered both of them.

He rested on his side, raised over one elbow, his other hand just writing nonsenses over Jefferson’s side. Time passed and he didn't get tired. He planned to wake up reasonably early tomorrow even though they don’t have to go to the office. Minutes kept piling up.

 

It was almost unbelievable, how time can change things, how time had changed them. 

 

How tension grew into something more intimate, who intimacy blossomed into comfort. He marvelled, because how could he not, and his chest felt full and heavy.

 

_ We should go skate someday _ , hung on his tongue again,  _ or maybe somewhere else, if you prefer another thing; maybe nowhere else, if you prefer to stay just here, frozen in this moment _ . He closes his eyes, lets himself being wrapped by the calmness. I wouldn’t mind. He discovers, breaths and opens his eyes. 

There’s little left to write on Thomas side, so he lets himself be lulled by his peaceful breathing. Hopes and dreads for what he have just confessed to find his way into Thomas dreams. Hopes and dreads for Thomas to feel the same way. And he knows, knows that there’s more between them than what it used to be, more that what he could have ever hoped for if he’d have ever hoped. Thomas moves slightly and Alexander smiles, a fondness that never seems to leave him warming him from inside.

He could have laugh at the irony.

He could have kept thinking nonsenses, write them down and make them love letters.

 

He smiles instead.

 

Sits up and whispers to Thomas’ ear:

 

"Ok, I'm going to cuddle the shit out of you for about ten minutes and then I'm going to go sleep comfortably at my side of the bed, got it?"

 

In the end he stays cuddling him until he feels himself falling asleep. Then he moves to his bed side, incapable of not falling fast asleep in the comfort of having someone by his side for the first time in a long while.

 

&&

 

Next morning hits Thomas like a hammer. He barely knows who he is.

The room he is in has the blinds down, weird since his home has no blinds. He tries and fails to think. Blindly, he looks for a nightstand and a lamp. 

In the couple of second his eyes need to get used to the light he notices that he is naked. He instantly knows where he is. 

No so instantly he remembers the night before, and progressively he wishes more a more for the ground to just swallow him.

Hamilton is not going to let him live through this.

 

He takes his time to get out of bed, not sure neither caring about the hour, and when he does he finds his clothes fold over a chair.

Trying to ignore the contracture on his neck he got for sleeping on a pillow is not his own, he comes out in search of Hamilton; and if he knows the man he'll be on his study. 

Apparently he doesn't because he finds him on the kitchen, a light too warm to be even close to morning cascading over his shoulders and a pan in his hand.

 

"Well hello, I was almost considering waking you up." He greets, smiles and goes back to cooking.

 

"Good morning to you too." Thomas mumbles, sitting down. The pan hisses a greasy melody that hangs on the air. Alexander chortles.

 

"I'd hardly call it morning. I’m making lunch by the way, just give me a sec."

 

He waits, fidgets and watches Alexander bringing their meal. He was expecting to eat in silence, but they are in the livingroom no more and Alexander is feeling quite chatty today. Everything is unexpectedly nice.

 

It became too much for Thomas too soon.

 

He puts down his cutlery, effectively cutting down the conversation; he just needs to get done with it.

 

"Look,” he says. “I'm quite perplex you hadn't brought it up yet but, I'm sorry I fell asleep yesterday."

 

That’s it, it’s done, and there’s a quite, blood freezing moment before Alexander makes a gesture to dismiss the statement.

 

"You've got a hard week." He says, before going back to eat his meal.

 

That was not the answer he was expecting, not that he was sure what was he awaiting in the first place.

 

"You are taking it really well-"

 

"It was kind of a turn off, tho,“ there it was, of fucking course. ” even if you looked quite adorable-”

 

"Forget it." He said exasperated, grabbing his silverware again. "It will not happen again so." He grumbles, his head stubbornly down, focused completely on maiming his lunch.

 

He have had enough embarrassment for the day and he’s barely been awake a couple of hours.

 

"I wouldn't mind.” Alexander says softly. “I mean, if you ever want to spend the night again. I won't mind."

 

He gives his meal a rest, fork still half his way to his mouth. 

 

"Oh." He says, because what other thing could he say, befuddled as he is. How could have he seen it coming. He can feel his chest contracting just a tiny bit.

 

"Not that you have to, you know. Just whatever you like." Alexander add quickly when he realizes that Thomas is not going to say anything else.

 

Contracting a bit too much.

 

"No, I, that's nice.I- I mean, I'll think about it."

 

"Good."

 

And suddenly there is way much silence, deep and meaningful. The kitchen too intimate, their stares too naked. Someone needs to end it.

 

"Because, you know,” Thomas adds slowly. ”even I need some time to recover myself from screwing you so good."

 

"Oh, really? Because I didn't get much of that yesterday." Alexander retorts laughing.

 

"Fuck you." He says as he goes back to his food, smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, hope it was still enjoyable.


End file.
